The Bellamy Harris Affair {Lesbian Short Story}✔

Show Me Your Negatives

“So what’s the deal with you and Walker?” Harris asked as she checked the boiling carafe on the stove. It was Saturday, and we were in her kitchen, about to settle in for another one of our long afternoons together.

It had been two weeks since we met. She had come over every day after our shared trauma, just to check on me. Walker (and Jaxon) had voiced many times that he didn’t like her presence. But she made it clear to him that she didn’t care. Her mission was to nurse me back to health. And she had executed her objective without a hiccup.

That day was the first time that I had color in my cheeks, and a cough didn’t steal my voice every few seconds. My stitches had been removed, though I was certain a scar would soon take their place. The pneumonia had cleared up as well. And her leg was on the mend. Neither of us was classified as sick and/or shut-in anymore. However, we still saw each other every day.

I knew she must be as curious about me as I was about her. But I had hoped she’d ease into the interrogation, ask me where I grew up, if I had any brothers or sisters. Instead, she went right for the jugular. I guessed the gloves were off.

The question was one I had dreaded and expected. Despite seeing it coming, I hadn’t come up with an answer to it. And that was because I didn’t know myself. Instead of launching into some stumbling ramble about my living situation, I feigned deafness and watched her nurse the Turkish coffee.

I was a huge fan of coffee, and its wondrous ability to transform me into a functioning human being at five in the morning. But I had never heard of this method of brewing it. I felt lucky to have a fellow enthusiast of the bean show me what, and I quote, “real coffee” should taste like. The gorgeous antique copper cup set that would be used to serve it had me sold as well. Anything with a history enchanted me.

She glanced over at me and sighed. The brew in the ibrik began to froth. Her attention left me long enough to remove it from the heat. Once it settled again, she placed the ibrik back on the fire. After one more boil and froth, it was ready.

I plated the saffron tea cakes I made earlier, while she poured the coffee into the metal cups. She was careful and meticulous with the beverage. Not a drop was spilled, and both cups had the desired amount of froth on their surfaces.

I watched her then, like I’d become accustomed to doing. Everything about her seemed to have a certain grace and control to it. She was sure of herself. And it was apparent in even her smallest movements. She did what she wanted, everyone else be damned. It wasn’t an aggression, nothing as off-putting as that. No, it was just . . . a steadfast determination and confidence.

My bachelor’s in psychology couldn’t begin to help me put her into words. No amount of study could. All I knew was that I found myself inextricably drawn to her. And I hoped she felt even a little of that magnetism towards me.

In the middle of our silent sampling of the coffee, which was delicious, she sat down her cup and turned to me.

“May I show you something?” she asked.

I stuffed the last bit of the little cake I was wolfing down into my mouth, and nodded. As she took my hand and led me down a hallway, I took the opportunity to get a glimpse of the things that decorated her life.

Vases, statuettes, and other treasures that looked like they might belong in the Smithsonian greeted me in a regal silence. Each piece had been placed just so. Nothing looked like an afterthought. She had chosen these things for a purpose, and she handled them with the care and respect they deserved.

At the end of a short walk through the house, we reached a stairwell that stretched down into the basement. Harris went down first, and advised me to watch my step as I followed behind her. Even if I had tripped, I wouldn’t have fallen. She had held my hand the entire time.

When she let go of my hand to find a couple light switches, my heart quickened at what was illuminated before me.

Black and white portraits of the city hung from various wires that traversed the space. Colorful motion shots of children playing in a water feature at a nearby park lept from the glossy paper. The city as she had captured it looked foreign to me. It looked vibrant and alive. Not at all like the dusty shell of its former self most of Birmingham had become.

“You took all these?” My hand wavered over a shot of Railroad Park, afraid that if I touched it the colors might actually smear.

She nodded, and hid a half-smile behind a curtain of ombre blonde hair. As I explored the small studio, she drifted along after me, only volunteering information about her work when I asked. And I asked about each one.

She was more reserved than her usual self. Her voice was full of passion when she spoke. But she seemed to be withholding her enthusiasm until she could gauge my reaction. As if my disapproval would crush her. Her work appeared in national magazines on a regular basis. She had no reason to be afraid of the opinion of a nobody like me.

When I reached a small room off to the side of the studio, I asked her permission before continuing. I knew how temperamental artists could be. Seeing a masterpiece before it was ready was blasphemous.

She urged me along, but didn’t follow. Instead she chose to hover just outside the doorway, like an expectant father pacing outside the delivery room.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the dark room, the fresh proofs suspended above the trays of chemicals came into focus. My mind registered the sole subject of the few photographs, and my stomach began to feel like I’d just plummeted from the top floor of the Empire State building.

“These are all of . . .” I lost my voice. My mouth became a suitable climate for cacti. And my palms began to sweat.

“Last Saturday, around 7:24 AM, you walked out to your backyard and tucked your hands into the pockets of your sweater. ” She stepped into the room with me, and plucked one of the pictures from its clip. “And then, you opened your eyes and smiled up at the sky like it was your best friend.”

I kept my mouth shut, unsure of what might fall out if I didn’t. There were no words for what she had done.

Harris placed the picture on a nearby table, and smiled down at it for a moment. She took a ragged breath, and folded her arms around herself. I watched her shrink into the wall nearest the door.

“Um . . . Bellamy.” She glanced down at the floor, and then back up at the couple rows of candid shots of me. “I know all this must seem very invasive and creepy. But . . .”

“Thank you, Harris.” I blurted out the words in the middle of her shaky explanation.

“For what?” she asked, still tucked into that corner.

I smiled at her. “For showing me myself.”